


Freefall

by Hawk (Hawk87)



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Deaf Clint Barton, First Meetings, Fluff and Crack, Gift Fic, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Clint Barton, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25242040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawk87/pseuds/Hawk
Summary: “Late again, Sparrow.”Bucky stood, watching his work as the flames enveloped the evidence locker, the footsteps behind him now familiar enough for him not to startle. Bucky didn’t need to see him to know that he was there; he was always there in the vents, in the rafters, on a wire… Clint was familiar on these missions now. He neither wants nor needs him there but he had become more of an annoyance than a threat as their exposure to one another continued.“It’s Hawkeye.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Freefall

**Author's Note:**

> For Neonscreens <3

The dichotomy between a good idea and a bad idea was one that Clint Barton tended to ignore in his day to day life; he walked the tightrope between them like he was still working Carson’s, one podium to another without a net to catch him if he fell. As he’d grown older, he’d gotten rather used to finding himself having chosen the bad idea, hindsight be damned, and he’d gotten fairly used to the feeling of falling. Running away from foster home after foster home until he finally decided on living the dream of every boy who had ever seen a Big Top? Bad idea. Allowing himself to be caught up in their world until he was in too deep to free his name from the Swordsman’s embezzlement? Bad idea. Going against him and having his arse handed to him? Bad idea. Clint’s whole life had been nothing short of a freefall, a plane that he’d jumped from only to find that he didn’t have a parachute and he was falling… falling and one day he was going to hit the ground and hit it hard.

The ground looked an awful lot like Bucky Barnes.

Now, as a general but universally cited statement, it was a bad idea to sleep with those working in the same local… But no one, to Clint’s knowledge at least, had ever said anything about not sleeping with the hot, possibly psychotic criminal, who just happened to blink into existence one day on a job and seemed to have an internal alert on how to get in his way. And get in his way, Bucky very much did. The man was a criminal, a former big hitter for the ghosts governing the world, turned struggling soloist, thriving on his old coattails and word of mouth when his organisation had crumbled. Clint was more of a syndicate kind of a guy; a team-up with the hot redhead and break into the CIA kind of guy, a black market, answer-an-ad-on-Craigslist, ‘I can do this’ kind of a guy. Their two paths should never have connected and yet he could not escape the other both in and out of contract.

Where one such James Barnes was concerned, a trail of destruction was his legacy; where Clint was a career criminal in metaphorical freefall, Bucky’s story began in the more literal sense as his body hit the snowy ground somewhere in the Austrian wilderness and he watched through agony-lidded eyes as the windows of the train rocketed by like the panels of a zoetrope, painting a future for him in the spreading bloodstain in the snow. Once upon a time, Bucky would have been considered by some an honest man and by others a hero. What he had become was a former soldier, jaded by the rejection of his country; an enemy of the state to be sold as a weapon to the highest bidder… and when that world too was destroyed in a rain of bullets, Bucky was already addicted to the rush of crime.

The rush felt an awful lot like Clint Barton.

If asked, Bucky would deny to the grave that he had even remotely come to associate the thrill of this life with the archer; Clint was nothing but a thorn in his side, a man who was constantly in his way, frequently risking their mutual incarceration with the risks he took, the constant bending of his ear and his lateness. Bucky was not made to work as a partnership; he was not in this world to make friends with fellow criminals for this was a world born of bloodshed and necessity, where the difference between making rent and starving on the streets was a perfectly forged Delacroix.

Clint Barton was ruining his life.

***

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was the birthplace of this flame; from the moment that Clint had first laid eyes on the other as he roamed the gallery halls like a shadow, Clint had been intrigued. He was not unlike himself, at first glance; his body built for stealth and masked in black tactical gear, tucking himself to the corners, perfectly shielded from the gaze of the security cameras and entirely unaware that Clint had already scrambled the system to blind them. The ex-carnie was curious… Exactly how they two could have chosen this exact day to make an attempt on the very same painting was nothing short of fate but the how and why washed from his mind in the lock of a steel-blue gaze.

Fuck.

Clint crouched, feet strong on their perch of an undoubtedly priceless stone pillar, blocking himself from the draw of a gun as he nocked an arrow. It wasn’t the first time that he had been rumbled in the middle of a contract, but it was most certainly the first time that he had been made by someone sharing his mutual goal. Of course, they weren’t totally on the same side here; they both wanted to leave here with that painting and Clint fully intended to fight his corner until he left here victorious.

And he would have if not for the hand that encircled his throat in a moment of distraction, forcing his body against a wall somewhere between a bronze bust of Pan and the statue La Crainte des Traits de l’Amour. He dropped the bow, somewhat more interested at the moment in restoring the regular flow of oxygen to his airways, his hand moving to wrap around the other’s wrist as his toes barely grazed the ground beneath him. He tasted iron as his eyes began to glaze, momentarily blind before he was suddenly back on his feet, gasping, throat bruised.

When Clint had regained some semblance of rational thought, the other man was gone, no evidence of his crime left behind save for the brighter paint of the wall where the landscape had once hung and the lingering prickle of heat around Clint’s neck.

***

The thought of arrows lingered with Bucky after their second encounter; his shoulder stinging still from the antiseptic he’d already begun to treat the fresh graze with. He couldn’t help but think that, in some way, it was payback for choking the guy out during their first encounter.

He’d been expecting hostility, he just hadn’t thought that his path was going to cross with the archer again; it had been a one-time thing, a fluke that they’d end up in the same art gallery at the same time, with their eyes on the same painting. But it seemed that the fates had other ideas than to allow him the peaceful life of never having his livelihood challenged by a man who favoured purple to black. And he deserved the hostility after how he had responded to their first meeting. Bucky wasn’t certain that he would go as far as saying that he deserved to be shot at with an arrow of all things, but it was obvious enough to him that he hadn’t meant for it to hit anywhere more seriously than the shoulder he had grazed. He had seen the sureness in Clint’s eyes and the stance… He was a perfect marksman if ever Bucky had seen one – and he had seen plenty, a former sniper himself.

And it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it coming with the way they had both shouted their displeasure at meeting again, Clint insisting that it was his turn to win and Bucky firing back with an, “I don’t take turns, I’m not six.”

Perhaps, in hindsight, he did deserve the shooting.

***

Clint’s research had turned up very little on his midnight companion. There were those who claimed to have crossed paths with him in the past, selling their stories of how they had fought and lived to tell the tale and Clint had laughed. They could hardly be talking about the same man who had spared him now not once but twice? The man was no mercenary. He was a petty criminal who stole mediocre art and syphoned stolen charity money from one dodgy bank account to another. But the name… The name was fitting. The Winter Soldier.

“Internet says you’re Russian.”

As far as first words went, Clint could admit he might have tried for a hello instead.

“I was.”

He had him pinned again. The floor this time, the Soldier’s body heavy over his, encompassing every inch of him. A knee pressed his thigh into the ground, enough to render him immobile but hovering on the power of his other leg so as not to do lasting damage to the archer, a hand wrapped around his wrists and eyes boring into his own. Clint shifted, freeing a hand to reach up, curiosity be the death of him, fingers idling on his neck as he found the release for the Soldier’s mask.

The Soldier was gone before Clint saw a thing.

***

“Not the greatest hacker, are you?” Bucky turned; lips already pulled into a snarl but this time his hand did not go for his gun. The Hawkeye – a codename that Bucky had come to learn during their last encounter:

“Late again, Sparrow.”

Bucky stood, watching his work as the flames enveloped the evidence locker, the footsteps behind him now familiar enough for him not to startle. Bucky didn’t need to see him to know that he was there; he was always there in the vents, in the rafters, on a wire… Clint was familiar on these missions now. He neither wants nor needs him there but he had become more of an annoyance than a threat as their exposure to one another continued.

“It’s Hawkeye.”

Bucky glanced, quirking a brow at how unbothered the other seemed by his lateness, strolling in here… Starbucks in hand.

“That’s dumb.”

– could hold himself in combat certainly, but Bucky had come to understand that the man was a comedian more than he was a fighter; whilst Bucky chose to escape situations with a bullet, this man preferred the more tactical approach of talking his opponents into submission. And of course, after that last encounter, the man might think he was open to conversation. He could try, he supposed. His eyes followed his lips, narrowing as he watched the other drop from his wire and saunter to the laptop Bucky had been hunched over for the better part of the last half hour, tensing as he felt the warmth of his body lean over him to see the coding on the screen. Bucky sighed, glancing over his shoulder. “Guessing you’re here for this?”

“Nah,” Clint shrugged. Bucky relaxed and he would deny that it had anything to do with the warm breath on his neck. “I’m here to beat the shit out of the guy. They tell you what he did?”

“I don’t ask questions.”

Bucky didn’t need to. Questions led to moral quandaries and moral quandaries led to hesitation, imprisonment and early graves. Still, he had seen the news; as much as he didn’t need to know exactly what kind of photographs he was meant to be retrieving from beneath the heavy encryption of these files, news of the Mayor’s personal illicit fantasies had reached the mainstream and he envied the other’s mission. Unless… “You wanna swap?”

***

Barely awake and out of coffee in his apartment, something that happened far too frequently for someone who’s very lifeforce was connected to the addictive bean juice, Clint at least had the blessing of living two doors down from an independent. His head pounded from the night before – another encounter with the Winter Soldier that some might consider more of a win more than a loss. He certainly did. Clint would admit that he had come to feel a pang of disappointment whenever he reached a job and he was hitting it solo.

The stolen income, however, was annoying and he damn well intended to beat the guy to the punch next time he laid eyes on him, literally if he had to. An attraction to leather pants was not going to be the thing that put him out of business. 

The faint sound of a cup touching down on the table brought his hand from his pinched nose, the feel of another body leaning over his… familiar… And the scent of sweat and strawberries…

“You… are by far the worst criminal I have ever heard of.” The voice came in at his left side, clear with a Brooklyn twang as the cup was turned to reveal his name scribbled upon it by their helpful barista. “Clint.”

He snorted, a faint smile touching his lips. Well, there was that secret identity blown. “But you have heard of me.”

A beat.

“You did not just quote Pirates of the Caribbean? Tell me that was unintentional,” the other snorted, moving to sit opposite him. It was the first time Clint had seen him unmasked. Peculiar. He’d expected a clean shave. And yet the sudden thought of how that rough chin might graze his flesh on his descent to… He took the cup, swallowing the thought with scalding coffee.

“You want me to lie?”

The other rolled his eyes, fishing in his pocket before placing something upon the table before them and rising again, excusing himself without a further word. Clint looked, finding his missing right hearing aid beside the other’s own forgotten coffee cup, the name intentionally pointed his way.

Bucky.

***

Stark Tower, the gleaming phallus of military propheteering that dominated the New York skyline, the scene of Bucky’s revenge. He wasn’t invited but leaving the prosthetic home and donning his old uniform had been more than enough to both get him through the door and into the gala’s event space. He ignored the bile that rose in his throat as he mingled with the faces that represented his own downfall and sipped champagne each time it was handed to him in a crystal flute before depositing the bubbling liquid into a houseplant that, in hindsight, was most likely plastic. He couldn’t imagine Stark keeping anything alive.

Bucky was here to riot. He would break away eventually, wreck something, maybe make off with a prize from the silent auction just to spite them all. This was for charity, after all. A charity for veterans no less. Did he not deserve the keys to a sparkling new yacht if they were dumb enough to put them in a glass display for all to see? A little misdirection and he could be selling that vessel to the highest black-market dealer…

And that was when he saw him; purple shirt, a shock of blond hair and hearing aids.

His fingers grabbed the back of his shirt, dragging him through the closest door. This wasn’t fair. Of all the places that he could be… Here? Bucky hadn’t thought to check the usual places to see if there was anything going on here but if there was then surely, he would have been told of it first? He had made a name for himself enough that most of the local crime rings knew his name and how to get in touch and yet here was Clint _fucking_ Barton… in formal wear.

“You are not fucking this one up for me.”

“I didn’t even know you’d be here. World doesn’t revolve around you, Buck.”

“Then why are you here? You’re not a Veteran and you’re certainly not rich.”

“I could be rich.”

Bucky snorted, brow rising; nothing about Clint suggested he could be. He had seen him at the coffee shop. He’d watched the shitty apartment block he’d disappeared into afterwards and it wasn’t the home of a rich man. Clint didn’t seem all that bothered by the insinuation that he wasn’t, simply giving a shrug and looking him in the eye as he continued, “Can I get out of the closet now or did you pull me in here for a reason?”

***

Clint had never met a fellow criminal like Bucky; he was stoic, not much of a talker but then, he supposed that the solo guys didn’t really have too many people to talk to. He had wondered after the brief encounter in the coffee shop whether the other had friends at all. Not that he was suggesting he fill the position… He had plenty of other ideas for positions that he could fill where Bucky was concerned. And not to raise himself too high but he was fairly certain that Bucky, at least on some level, felt the same way. It couldn’t be a coincidence that they continued to meet, could it? Always answering the same ads, always wanting the same priceless gem or artwork, always targeting the same hostile… Like now.

Now he was here, expecting to ambush the target and leave him waiting for pickup, only to find the place already empty save for a black-clad soldier counting his money. He was met with a smirk from the other; the usual greeting.

Clint sighed; another lost contract. But hey, maybe he could make the most of it? “You wanna go grab some frozen yoghurt?”

“Fuck off, bird.”

Or not.

***

Clint’s penis was not the thing that saved Bucky’s life that night but it had certainly played its part in the event, not exactly significant to the rescue itself but present enough that it was perhaps the only real detail he remembered as he fell into bed, heart still racing from the near-miss. The sound of helicopter blades cutting through the air still filled his ears, threatened only by his frantic heartbeat and the sound of their footsteps as he relived their rooftop race. The searching gaze of a spotlight searching the streets for the two wanted criminals continued too, flashing behind his eyes but blocked by the silhouette of Clint that he could not forget.

Clint had been the one to sound their alarm, somehow aware of the flipped switch, and Bucky had cursed, certain that in order to be aware of such a thing, it must have been Clint’s own doing, either a betrayal or one of his many acts of idiocy that had almost gotten them caught in the past. Yet, he trusted him as the other grabbed his wrist and forced him to wrap his limbs around the archer as his wire carried them to the roof. With barely the time to replace the glass panel Clint had descended from this time, or to dust himself down from the mental awkwardness of being that close to him, they were running.

The ex-carnie knew the rooftops well and Bucky had followed him almost blindly, turning where he turned, jumping where he jumped… until he misjudged a landing and slipped in a clatter of broken roof tiles, his hand reaching desperately for a hold, only to catch Clint’s leg and bring him down with him. They slid like penguins down a snowbank, only with less glee and more panic, Clint nocking an arrow and firing a rope to wrap around a nearby chimney breast, securing himself, while Bucky made a grab for his legs. The rope held strong, the two men hanging by the side of the building, Bucky’s fingers desperately holding onto Clint’s belt loops.

It took a moment for him to get over the relief of not falling to his death for the second time in his life and realise what predicament he had found himself in; with his fingers holding onto the fabric of Clint’s pants, his face was positioned in exactly the area one might expect to find certain male anatomy. And it was present. With his eyes at Clint’s crotch, Bucky was faced with not only the vague shape of a challenge in his pants but the size as well… There was nothing to be left to the imagination. A fraction later and the sound of tearing fabric revealed all, the soldier landing heavily into a conveniently placed dumpster. He recalled vaguely that Clint had called to check he was alive but with his eyes still fixed on his now distant but entirely nude appendage and its accompanying full moon, Bucky had slipped silently into the night.

Maybe he should have just fallen to his death…

***

Entrapment; another theme of Clint Barton’s life. In its most literal sense of being led into this criminal world, it was his origin story and he remembered the feeling well enough of stepping into the Big Top that day to face the Swordsman only to find himself surrounded by his grunts. Stepping into this warehouse now gave him the same uneasy feeling as that day; the air was too still, the scent of sewage mixed with ocean breeze from the bay seeping through the aluminium frame of the warehouse, the lights dim from disuse, a flickering bulb in the corner fighting to stay alive… It was a trap.

Clint couldn’t help but wonder if Bucky knew that; had he answered the same advert yet again? He had come to anticipate the jobs that he might find the other; be it basic theft or intercepting a weapons deal as this was supposed to be, he knew what alleyways the soldier lurked in now and as a result of that, he knew that he would be here.

Unless he was still licking his wounds from the embarrassment of their last encounter? Clint smirked at the memory, having given a moment of serious thought to the idea of wearing breakaway pants for the next time he came face to crotch with the soldier…

In the end, he had decided against it. He could no longer count the number of times that he and Bucky had crossed paths but it was no longer countable on one hand, and though he had been choked, embraced and pressed against his body, face close enough to taste his breakfast on his breath, Clint could not predict whether or not the accidental happenstance of their last meeting was any kind of progression to their budding tension.

Bucky probably knew that this was a trap… Clint should heed his own internal warning and get the hell out of here but what if the other didn’t? What if he was wrong and the other got hurt? Clint didn’t care for him, but he had gotten rather used to him being around and he wasn’t about to let him fall prey to whatever psychopath they had pissed off this time. He wasn’t worried; the Soldier could handle himself, but Clint couldn’t bring himself to leave, padding silently through to the open space of the warehouse, arrow already nocked and ready should he need it to defend either of them.

What he didn’t expect was the soldier himself, sitting casually in a chair, no weapon, no safety in mind, unmasked and casual. 

“Are you ever not late?” Entrapment…Clint rolled his eyes at the greeting, arrow lowered as his brow quirked, questioning the other. “We need to talk.”

“You put out this job?”

“Might have had something to do with it.”

He felt an uncharacteristic flare of anger; here was this man, this constant interference in his life, stealing into his business hours and now manipulating them as well? “So, you’re not only wasting my time on the contracts I do have, making off with my profits and my clients… Now you’re posting fake ads to waste my time as well. I’d be careful. A man might think you wanted to get him alone.”

“A man might be correct.”

Clint stopped, anger faltering slightly. “Repeat.”

Bucky rose from the chair, smirking as he shortened the gap between them with each unhurried step. “A man… might… be correct,” he repeated, fingers grasping Clint’s chin by the last word. It was not a gentle touch, holding him firm against any idea that Clint might have of trying to shake him away. He didn’t try. With his heart taking up new residence in his throat, his breath was stolen by the proximity of the other as his face leaned to his own, the free hand not on his chin pushing his quiver from his shoulders and replacing it with a palm on the small of Clint’s back. Clint was taken, allowing his body to mould to his, a leg slipped between Bucky’s both as a way of grounding and a threat that if the wrong move was made, he would sweep him to the ground.

Bucky dealt with the threat swiftly, the hand on his back slipping to his arse and hoisting the archer into his arms, Clint’s legs unable to do more now than to wrap around his waist. “Didn’t realise the sight of my cock was all it took… I’d have taken my clothes off months ago,” he smirked, closing in to capture his mouth, tugging Bucky’s hair back as he licked the seam of his lips for entry.

His back hit the wall as Bucky shoved him back again, his eyes narrowed but despite the act, Clint saw the amusement behind his eyes.

“Do you ever shut up?”


End file.
